


Code Name Kid’s next door: Operation, Save the Sergievskys

by Future_Blackmail_Material



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: F/F, F/M, Florence doesn’t deserve this shit, Freddie is sad, M/M, Still a dick, Stressed Anatoly, molokov has a gun au, neither does Svetlana, theyre all bi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-30 15:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19406146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Future_Blackmail_Material/pseuds/Future_Blackmail_Material
Summary: As tension rises, and everyone becomes disillusioned with each other, new love spurs and impulsive idiotic decisions threaten the lives of the Sergievskys./*Better act 2 of Chess (attempted). Mix of different elements of different productions I personally think work. Such as “Argument” from the concept album, David McLeod making Freddie a little bit more bratty and childish than everyone else, giving everyone a more complete ending. */





	1. The Folly of a Tryst

**Author's Note:**

> Im not a writer, definitely not a good creative writer (I’m artist & animator) ((yes I’ve drawn stuff in advance for the fic xd)) so please don’t be too rough with me. This is my first actual fanfiction that wasn’t me writing crack in 7th grade, so I hope that sets the bar low enough.

The rendezvous, to lovers, is one of the most sacred moments two people could have together. Alone, two people connected by their mutual love for each other, blissful and idealistic. Florence Vassy was one such blissful and idealistic person. Throughout her life, she has never considered herself amongst the ranks of silly girls and those naive to the true workings of the world. Florence was rational, she was forced to be. Faced with the dark, brutal truth of the world.

However, she was not herself in this instance. She had become something better than herself, a single heartbeat. Curled up within the arms of another entity, her lover. She wouldn’t call him her ‘boyfriend’, it was too silly, made her sound young. She was not a little girl. She was a grown woman, who worked hard to prove who she was. Tension released, she relaxed, she could be off her guard for once. He brought fresh coolness to her life. She relished in the idea of having someone love you wholly, and not be exploited for that condition. Had it really been a year since him? The antithesis to her happiness.

Nuzzled against her man, her Anatoly, she cleared her mind as he flipped through the channels of the television. The buzz and murmur of irrelevant conversations in the news; what was it to her anymore. She glanced up at him with warmth, which per usual was reflected back at her. Tired eyes locked with her own. The stress and anxiety must be catching up to him, she insists to him that he rest soon. He mutters an excuse, something about practicing chess, she couldn’t care. It wasn’t that she herself wasn’t overcome with the same worries that came with their situation, but in this moment it wasn’t important. They had this moment together, to relish within each other, and it should be used to fulfill that. Beyond that, this year was a fresh start. The animosity which had fostered their relationship was just a figment of a past which flew by.

Anatoly grew bored and flipped to the next station, global television, he must be anxious about the match.

Both their hearts sank within a second. Florence’s demeanor shifted, and her jaw clenched. Breath sucked in and caught within her chest, heart skipping a beat, potentially could’ve just stopped altogether.

Deceivingly charming on air, it was good to know he hadn’t changed. Who else to commence the 1980 Bangkok World Chess Championship than dethroned king, and according to Florence, professional manchild, Frederick Trumper. She huffed. Of course he wouldn’t decline such a profitable opportunity. It’d been a year since his rather humiliating fall from grace. Florence would’ve expected that he just would’ve shriveled and died. A whole year of silence from him, the same man whom she’d been barely able to get to shut up for a whole ten minutes. He must’ve thought he’d be able to fool the world into seeing a Frederick Trumper who’d politely lost, and had seen his time. He couldn’t fool her, slicker appearance and civil composure couldn’t erase Freddie Trumper. Freddie Trumper who’d throw temper tantrums when not getting his way, spiteful in every action. Spilling his venom and vile in an attempt to erode everyone he’d come into contact with, contempt for everyone who wasn’t Freddie Trumper. In a final fit, throwing his whole life away with such impulse and carelessness that he’d had no choice but to seclude himself from the rest of the world. She wasn’t a fool anymore, she’d escape his clutches and was onto the new chapter of her life. Anatoly was her life now, Anatoly who’d cared and loved her with all of his being. Well most of his being, both their hearts shared a mutual love for the game, a link which brought the two together despite the trickiest of odds.

Anatoly, in tune with the mood, quickly changed the channel upon sensing the change. He’d stroke her hair, bring her closer to him, present a kiss as an offer of distraction, and all would be alright again. Florence appreciated that.

————

They’d been in Bangkok just a couple of days. They’d had the pleasure of soothing Anatoly’s nerves by embracing the wonders of Bangkok. At least they would’ve if that were actually true. Anatoly hadn’t met with Molokov since Merano, since his defection. However, Molokov now was a relevant threat. As much as Anatoly would try to make the match as cut and dry as it should be, that wasn’t the reality of the situation. The entirety of the championship put him in jeopardy.

**_Soviet Defect World Champion plays Soviet Challenger in most dynamic chess game since 79_ **

Over the course of a couple of days of their stay in Bangkok, Anatoly had been exclusively glued to the chessboard. Florence as his companion in all regards was obligated to be there for him, play him, comfort him, take care of him, reassure him, challenge him. It’s not as if she hadn’t know it would be part of her job as lover and second, but it left an all to familiar taste in her mouth. She ignored it. Florence lay in their shared bed, or rather what would’ve been shared bed. She’d ask him to join her in bed, he’d decline, “I have to at least finish this game for tonight, I can’t leave it hanging”. She’d ask him to join her for complimentary hotel breakfast, they could laugh together at how mundane hotel food tastes after about two bites, he’d decline “I have to get started early, I must make sure I’m ready for the match”. She asks him for a kiss, he gives a half hearted peck to appease her insistence, she sighs.

————

Anatoly sat at the hotel desk, which he’d only left twice during the course of the day (she’d had made him eat something and take a stretch break). Florence didn’t bother asking him this time around to lay with her, she knew what his answer would be. Anatoly was a fantastic chess player, both of them knew that. He hadn’t gotten this worked up over a game in the time she’d known him, granted it was not that long. She knew she shouldn’t be frustrated, but she couldn’t help herself. So much of the emphasis lately had been on Anatoly; what Anatoly needed, what Anatoly wanted. Not everything was about Anatoly, not everything was about the match. Chess was what brought them together, right? It shouldn’t be pushing them apart, a literal wall between the two.

Feeling otherwise ignored, Florence turned on the TV. The buzz lately had been building, anticipation for the event. The implications of a defector playing a Soviet has sparked the same rambunctious nature of coverage. Suddenly chess was everywhere. Man of the hour, Freddie Trumper, was everywhere. Trumper all over TV, capitalizing off his own humiliation, selling himself out to make his own extrinsic ethos. Bragging about his experience, “former champion of the world” thinking that if he proclaimed it with a bright smile that it would outshine the truth of his career. She shouldn’t be surprised, he’d always been big money.

Here he was, debating amongst his fellow commentators on how the event would play out. Of course he’d underplay Sergievskys’s skill. Proclaim in sarcastic fashion the efficiency of the cogs which produce machines such as Viigand. The way his lips curled in the most repulsive manner, a Cheshire smile, as he wagered that Anatoly would lose, he’d bet on it. The commentators would criticize, and he’d reply with his trademarked snarkiness. Surely he would know how much stress affects the mental wellbeing of the world champion defending his title, if was his circumstance. “Never trust a woman who has ulterior motives than chess” he’d pause, as if he knew Florence’s blood would begin to boil in that moment, “And definitely don’t allow her to be your second” and he concluded with an awful laugh.

Next station. His chiding wasn’t worth the effort to get upset. She leaned back against the board of the bed, cradling a pillow between her arms, and resting her chin upon it. Would’ve been nicer to play with the dark curls of Anatoly’s hair, but he was too busy and would’ve gotten frustrated. He wasn’t coming to bed anytime soon. The time zone differences we’re screwing with her head, not quite tired, she decided on infomercials. Those had always been a pleasure to mock, definitely would’ve been better if she had someone to mock them with. Anatoly wasn’t coming to bed anytime soon. She hugged the pillow tighter.

————

Back to the reliable television, another awake night. Trumper reliably there to calculatedly mock and undermine every aspect of her new life. Everything was starting to feel personal, he must know. Everything was beginning to build up. As Florence went about on her own people had taken notice of her, Sergievsky’s second. Politely declined, a master of putting on a good face in compromising situations. Next thing she knew she was on the screen. Trumper making remarks about her presumed relationship with the champion, “how typical”.

He leaned in against the table and brought the sunglasses he’d been wearing down to the bridge of his nose, eyebrows raised, “Boy do we have an exciting rumor” and then he gestured for De Courcey to finish his statement. Walter nodded and looked down at some papers as if there were actual notes written, “The wife of the reigning World Chess Champion, Svetlana Sergievsky, is rumored to come to Bangkok and reunite with her husband. The two haven’t had connections since the match in Merano a year ago”. Florence blinked in disbelief. A picture of the married couple appeared on the screen, and Trumper made a snide comment about how Ms Vassy intended on dealing with the wife of her champion.

Anatoly must be deaf. He hadn’t moved a muscle, and continued to play.

————

“How? How do you not care about this?”

“I do care.”

“No you don’t. If you cared you’d address the public, do you know what they’re saying about you– about us?”

“You shouldn’t get so worked up over what people think.”

“I don’t understand how you don’t! It’s not just that some libel newspaper is trying to stir up something, everyone is talking about us! It’s all over the news! Anatoly I’ve been stopped in the streets by reporters!”

“Calm down. I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

Florence almost wants to flip the chessboard, life isn’t a game. Not even once had he picked up his eyes or even glanced in her direction. Maybe if he didn’t look her direction the problem would go away on its own.

“Anatoly this is serious.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

He’d never liked arguing.

“I don’t understand how you are acting so calm about this?”

“I’m acting calm because I have to. I’m sorry you’re upset, but I have to keep my head straight. Worry-“

“Ohhh of course Anatoly. You have to keep your mind clear. God forbid I tear you away from your chess game and back to reality. Have you not heard your wife is coming to Bangkok? Are you not afraid of that?”

She tossed her hands in the air and walked back toward the bed, a routine she’d become used to. Her arms crossed and foot tapping in frustration. He finally looked away from the board, and shifted in her direction.

“My wife? Come to Bangkok? That’s impossible.”

He swallowed, and sat rather uncomfortably, crossing his legs peculiarly. Florence saw a glimpse of genuine emotion, but it was quickly subverted through a blank frown, eyebrows remaining furrowed, and his eyes shined in a different light.

“You must’ve know. It’s been all over the news.”

“I didn’t know.”

Painful silence for a second as Anatoly broke their eye contact, and looked away to finish thinking of his response. Florence scoffed. He returned to her gaze with resolve, he could never quite muster an intensely angry face.

“I didn’t. It doesn’t matter. Whatever game Molokov is trying to play isn’t going to work.”

“Anatoly life is not a game.”

“I’m not foolish enough to let them get what they want out of me. Once the match is over everything will go back to normal.”

“Am I foolish then?”

“I thought you would’ve known better than to give into them.”

So she is foolish.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m the ridiculous one? I know the game. I know what they’re trying to pull. If you want to get involved in it, go ahead, but I won’t partake in it. Indulge all you want.”

Florence bolted up and made her way to the door. This wasn’t fair, she wasn’t being irrational. Disassociating yourself from every aspect of life to ‘play it safe’ was irrational. Not everything is a game. Life isn’t a game.

“Have a great time, Florence. Tell Svetlana I said hello.”

He’d never snapped at her like that.


	2. Brief Vignettes of a Year Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of dumb short thoughts on how Freddie spent that year “in silence”, of course centered from the perspective of Freddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably could’ve gone first instead of the previous chapter but I think this still works. I have a lot of feelings about Frederick Trumper.

Frederick Trumper was by all accounts, an attention whore, and his obsession with money was just a byproduct of his neediness. Bad press was still press. The momentary distress it could cause would be worth it when Frederick Trumper was renowned as the bad boy of chess. That’s how he wanted to be remembered, he wanted to be remembered. No one would be able to forget Frederick Trumper. He’d show them. He’d show everyone. Fuck them. No one would be able to take that away from him (fuck everyone). 

In the year following his retirement from competitive chess (he refused to acknowledge the rest of the Merano incident for at least the following six months) he’d worked on himself. Lots of contemplation and reflection occurs when you’re unemployed blowing your fortune alone, absolutely alone. Freddie hated being alone. He hated accepting help more though. Walter had called and knocked on his apartment door for the better part of a year before Freddie had agreed to sign onto Global Television. 

In the time alone, he’d discovered a lot about himself (or rather re-discovered). He’d discovered how of his happiness he’d pinned on Florence. He loved Florence so much more than she’d ever know. The soft press of her lips against his. The gentle way her nails tickled his scalp as she ran her fingers through his hair. The way her smile could quell any irrationality he’d experience. The way her laugh was infectious enough to make Freddie forget whatever frustrations he faced. Florence was sweet and more supportive than anything he deserved. He wouldn’t admit to himself that he was cruel to her, much harsher than he needed to be (on more than one occasion). A hypocrite in his own mind, he’d still have arguments within his head, a constant crashing and wicked river of self-doubt. Freddie had an enormous ego but was still intensely insecure (he’d never admit to that though). Every cocked eyebrow of a cashier or stray glance by a bystander was enough to send him over the edge, launching a barrage of uncalled for obscenities. He was pathetic without her, without anyone. 

Walter offered some sort of relief, in his own cryptic CIA agent way. Walter didn’t aid in Freddie’s utter lack of domestic skills. While Walter couldn’t cook him a proper meal for dinner, or hold him at night, and assist in other such private manners, he gave him a reason to get out of bed each morning (even if begrudgingly, “these fools need me, no one knows what they’re talking about”). Working for Global Television couldn’t fill the hole within him that competitive chess could, he at the very least had the proper skills set and trained eye to understand better than anyone the complexities and technicalities of chess. The addition of a new occupation in his life brought with it lifestyle changes. He’d prove it, he would prove that he didn’t need her. 

——

“Wow, looking great Trumper! See I told you the new look would do you some good.” Walter boasted about, slamming his hand into Freddie’s back in congratulations. As Freddie’s soul flew out of his body and into the astral plane from the impact, he observed himself and came to the conclusion that he agreed. He’d never put much thought or care into his appearance, really ever. This fresher style definitely projected a more mature appearance (facade if you will) and reinstilled Freddie’s notorious cockiness in place. shorter hair, clean-shaven face, more professional attire. He turned to check his ass in the mirror (“still got it”). Walter attempted to fix the top button as Freddie had left it undone (on purpose supposedly), which was quickly halted by Freddie swatting Walter’s hand away. He cleared his throat and fixed the button, “it’ll take some time, but we’ll tame you, Trumper.” Freddie hated how that sounded.

“Fuck you.”

“Behave.”

Freddie sharply inhaled through his nose. Walter continued. “You owe us big time, after that stunt you pulled in Merano.” Freddie rolled his eyes (‘there was no stunt, the cards were purposefully stacked against me’). “You could be useful y’know? We can be useful to you as well, lest you forget who has had your best interest in mind since the beginning, Frederick.” Freddie looked down as the other man slung his arm across Freddie’s shoulder, and brought him close. “Of course if you forget where your gratitude lies, we also have money in store for you. We just ask you maintain your patriotic duty for this country, and it’s international appearance.” Walter then let go, and Freddie made fast work of getting away from him. 

“See you again tomorrow then?”

“Yeah, sure whatever.”

“That’s it, attaboy”

(‘Fuck you’)

——

Freddie found himself on top of the world again. The thought of being important enough that De Courcey has sought him out (to keep tabs on him) and personally employed him, gave reassurance to himself. He was useful but first and foremost, he was wanted. He loved the idea of being wanted and revered. It was a big fuck you to the paternal voice in the back of his head which told him otherwise. 

He wasn’t a party person, however, if he went back to his apartment bedroom again he might just off himself. The only thing in that damned room was his lost integrity, a picture of his first win with Florence as his second that he hadn’t had the heart to get rid of, and lots and lots of junk food wrappers. It had been a little bit over half a year since he’d gotten it with anyone other than his left hand. He fully intended to change that, maybe spice things up for himself along the way. He’d repressed himself enough throughout his life, holding out in favor for chess. Look where competitive chess took him; right back where he started. Alone.

——

Plenty of drinks later and he was back in his bed, entangled with a random woman he found attractive and brought back to his room. She was nothing special, a cute brunette with a bob. He’d bought her a drink, attempted to impress her with his title as former chess world champion (she assumed he was lying, “I’m the real deal, honey”), she inquired him about if there was anything bigger on him than his massive intellect, and the rest was history. The sex was a rush and a thrill, but nothing special compared to what he’d had in the past. Chalked it up to still being in a funk. It wasn't quite the same as a genuine loving embrace and the satisfaction of laying with a person who he truly desired. The woman (he couldn’t quite remember her name, it didn’t matter) asked if he was with the woman in the photograph. He denied it, she rolled her eyes and assumed the worst. He’d asked her if she wanted to stay the night, she declined.

Freddie lay alone in bed, sweaty and messy. He couldn’t manage to get quite comfortable. Sighing, he settled for holding a pillow close to himself. Right back where he started.

——

Freddie got to know his other commentators well enough. He’d remembered a few faces from rewatching the tapes of his own televised matches (he most certainly wasn’t keeping tabs on the Russian. Why would he? Sirgeyeffski or whatever his name was, was no concern of his). They mocked him a bit, but Freddie, ever the smartass, always had sharp retorts. They always kept him fresh on his feet. He’d like to think they were just jealous of his success. It’s easy to criticize the player when outside of the player’s shoes. 

He had his first commentator gig, observing the final match within the Chess Jr national Championship. He definitely didn’t enjoy hanging around children, they always pushed his patience. However, these bunch seemed to be alright. He’d gotten to interview them, a few of them recognized who he was (Freddie found immense joy in that). He wasn’t all that impressed by the skill of the children, on account of the fact they were intact children, not developed enough in skill or strategy to really blow him away (Not like sergievsky had. Fuck Sergievsky). Maybe he overestimated the newest generation a bit too much.

The whole experience brought him back to his beginnings in competitive chess. His chess club made qualified for finals. He brought home the letter and permission slip home for his mother to sign. Every time he’d tried to bring it up, she’d give him a chore for him to do and paid no attention to what he’d said. Freddie wouldn’t even bother speaking a word to whatever man his mother fancied that month. A few of them tried to act interested but more often than not turned their attention away after Freddie said the word “chess”. The deadline came up, and desperate to go, he forged his mother’s name and information and handed the slip into his teacher. Suddenly, all attention was on his ability, his skill, his wit, and on him. It was a rush. His dedication to the sport finally paid off. He was surrounded by people just like him, people who understood him. Some of his competitors' parents had come with to support their child. He didn’t need to rely on anyone, he was fine, in the zone, self-sufficient. He’d make a move, briefly locking eyes with his opponent, flush just a bit, deceptively coy, and surprise them with a sneak attack. It worked well as a strategy until it didn’t. The final match between the last two competitors. A seventeen-year-old boy from Detroit, dark short hair, slightly tanned, hazel eyes, pretty enough to throw Freddie completely off his game. He thought in the insecure irrational way that a child does, he’d worked away his attraction to everyone (especially fellow men). His damned hormone spiked brain failed him, and he’d lost spectacularly within that final match. More time was focused on the way the other boy bit his lips in intense thought, and the delicate way he’d fumble around with his hands to pick up the chess pieces, the sparkle in his eye as he beat him and won the title. It wasn’t his last appearance in nationals. He won the title of US chess junior champion two years later. He’d gain some notoriety for being a damn good chess player, and the media took pity on the child who only had chess.

The rest was history.

—— 

He’d been experimenting a lot. Walter has made his stance on it very hard, he didn’t approve (fuck Walter, he wasn’t his father). He’d made a snide remark about how Walter needed him, Walter counterattacked declaring himself Freddie’s lifeline. Freddie had never been an all American golden boy. 

He’d grown tired of the company within the bars and clubs he’d frequented. Every soul in there was tired of his shit. Still getting a feel for himself, a feel for what life had to offer. Next stop, a bar he’d seen promotions for all over.

It was neon bright. Overwhelmingly loud with beats and the shouts of people having a good time. Smoke flooding the room, it might as well have been a hot box. It was very well possible to get drunk off the perspiration of alcohol dripping from the sweaty bodies. He likened it to a sauna on the inside. Ungodly hot and filled with half-naked men, the occasional woman. Sloppy kisses everywhere, the other sounds of people having a good time. “Oh god” it clicked. That paternal voice within his head was shouting at him to leave, Frederick Trumper had no business in a gay bar. Then again, why not? He was free to fuck with whoever he wanted, God himself could suck it.

People can change a lot over the course of a year. At the beginning of the year, you could be making love to the woman you adore, to taking it up the ass from whatever kind gentleman tipped his hat at him just the right way just a few months later. 

——

Freddie was notorious for being curt and intolerable towards most general things. However if Freddie was known for hating one thing in particular, it was the damned Communists. Infamously he had stated, at press conferences, absurd claims such as “A communist broke into my home as a child and shot my parents and looked me in the eyes as he did it”. Describing Freddie’s treatment of Anatoly Sergievsky as cruel would be a compliment compared to the reality of what happened. 

Walter had called Freddie in for a personal meeting. He glanced at his coworkers for reactions, hoping they’d give him more information, to his dismay they only shrugged and gestured for him to go off. Walter licked his thumb and smoothed down a rebellious stray hair which had previously refused to stay down. 

“Frederick I need you to promise me you’ll behave your best for our guest.”

“I can’t promise anything.”

“This is serious.”

“Everything’s serious to you.”

“Trumper please.”

Freddie sighed and nodded his head. Upon opening the conference room door, his mind started rushing. He refused to make eye contact with the guest, went immediately to sit in a chair, and very intentionally slumped in it and played with his hands.

“Alexander fucking Molokov. I thought vampires couldn’t walk in the daylight without shriveling up into ash.”

“Ah, Mr. Trumper, still as brutish as ever.”

Walter ran over and hit Freddie upside his head. Clamping his hands down onto Freddie’s shoulders to keep him in place, cleared his throat, quickly apologized, and proceeded. “Freddie, Mr. Molokov had a proposition for you, which I felt you would find intriguing.” And he bent down to whisper into Freddie’s ear, “Uncle Sam finds it intriguing as well.” And snapped back into place. Molokov looked over at Walter, for permission to speak, always courteous and gentlemanlike. 

“We are not asking too much of you, comrade. We simply request that you put it in the media’s mind that our man is fully capable and destined to win the championship.”

“Piss off. No.”

Walter presses his thumb harshly against the nape of Freddie’s neck. “Mr. Molokov would love to give you a decent amount of collateral in exchange for running Sergievsky’s name in the mud, which as I recall, is something you could do in your sleep.” He pushed harder. Freddie whined and shifted his shoulders to push Walter off, but he was steadfast. 

“I don’t take bribe money from damned reds”

“Of course not comrade, it’d be completely out of character for you.”

“Shut the fuck up, you don’t know anything about me.”

Walter intervened again. “I’m sorry Mr. Molokov, he’s feeling unruly today. We’ll take up the bargain. I understand better a relationship between the two of us can ensure better deals in the future.” He patted Freddie’s shoulder. “You can go. I’ll talk to you about this later”. Freddie frowned and speedily got out of there. It had felt like the walls just kept closing in on him. Better yet the walls were melting, the whole room was melting and suffocating him. He wanted to punch both of them in the face. Fuck them.

——

Bangkok was absolutely dreadful. He was undecided on whether or not Walter selling him out had anything to do it with it. Better yet the prospect of being there, with the happy, made him feel sick. He’d made an excruciating effort to remove them from his life. Trash talking Anatoly was one thing, but Walter kept adding more to the demand list. Walter kept the promise of money dangling over his head the whole time, Freddie couldn’t give less of a shit about the money at this point. Granted, fuck Anatoly and Florence, but he hated continuously talking about them. It drained the life out of him, ceaseless bringing back the bad memories. He hated how happy they were, and how empty he was. As the event got closer, he’d began feeling particularly venomous, and spiteful. 

Here he was, staying in a luxury hotel (which he didn’t have to pay for) within a bustling metropolis, and he couldn’t find it within himself to have a good time. Freddie was absolutely miserable.


	3. Recovery, Reception, and Repugnance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anatoly time! Picks up right after Florence leave the room in Chapter 1, I swear I preplanned all the chapters so they would “flow”. He meets up with a certain someone and they have a wonderful reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this all on a five hour plan ride, brace yourself. Also I just rewatched the concert version for the first time fully through (as opposed to just listening to the soundtrack) and so some specific details are wrong in accordance to that. Whatever, my au, my game.

As Florence stormed out of the room, Anatoly slumped in his chair. He loved Florence very much, but she had to understand. He was no stranger to the treatment he was receiving from the media. He was also no stranger to stranger’s meddling in his personal life.

Alexander Molokov had his own tabs and invested stock into the Sergievsky private life. Putting in the work to cover up the numerous affairs and flings Anatoly had throughout their partnership. Everyone found Anatoly’s charm all too appealing and Anatoly was all too eager to please. He wasn’t so much seeking connection, as he’d become detached and disillusioned from the people which surrounded him, as much as he just wanted a surplus of pleasure. He hated married life. It was so mundane and boring. He’d seized any chance to find momentary distraction from the monotony and inconvenience of it. In that respect Alexander had spoiled him. Anatoly had taken fancy in bossing Alexander around, having the KGB accommodate whatever he desired to ensure the best results would be reaped. They had to, it couldn’t be denied he was the best player in Russia. Viigand as it were, happened to be one of his chess playing seconds, but that’s all he could ever manage to be. Molokov had to have been pulling strings, crushing whoever stood in the way of Soviet victory. He was all too aware of the game to fall for such a trick. Especially considering he knew just how cruel he could be. Molokov was no shirking matter.

He loved Florence incredibly, but she had to understand how important it was to him to win. She had to know the game, she was smart. Anatoly repeated this to himself, tapping his fingers in a quick rhythm against the chess board. Time passed at sonic speed, and yet it felt like an eternity. As much as he tried to detach himself from the situation, he couldn’t run from Florence, not her, not when she stayed in the same bed as him at the least. Begrudging guilt came in, he’d settled on contacting De Courcey to book an interview to finally make a stand, clear up accusations, gain some better press. The media had always liked him, found him charming, attractive, and pleasant.

He’d known how to handle himself very well. He was polar to his previous opponent. Childish and infuriating at every point of the game. They didn’t even have to meet in person before Trumper began his ceaseless, mind numbing mudslinging. Anatoly had the bandwidth to maintain composure throughout the whole encounter. The closest he’d come to snapping at Trumper was the fun incident of Trumper accusing him of cheating just from Anatoly helping himself to some yogurt in the middle of their match. Thankfully he hadn’t spent much time with Trumper outside of the competition. Except for making glaring eye contact after his “meeting” with Florence. Trumper had looked on the verge of tears, what a child. It was almost amusing how massive his victory over Trumper was. Anatoly would be modest and downplay Merano, but it was his victory. Running away with Florence and defecting from the Soviets further cemented that the victory was for himself, not some grand statement for the world, just for himself.

——

Florence had come back after taking some time for herself to cool down. Anatoly took her hands and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, apologetic. She’d huffed a bit. It was cute how she tried so diligently to act like she was still upset. He brushed his hand against her cheek, and got close, stopping just short of her lips.

“I’m sorry. I called De Courcey, he assured me he’d be able to help.” She looked up at him, working her way up to a smile. “Following tomorrow’s session, I have an interview with Global Television.” He’d finished the sentence with a fuller kiss. It was lovely and sweet, she must’ve gone and had a quick glass of wine from the hotel bar. Before he could kiss her again, she pushed him back slightly.

“What about Svetlana?”

“What about her?”

“It’s in the news that she lands tonight.”

He brushed a stray hair of hers behind her ears.

“I’m not scared of her. If Molokov thinks he can pressure me into losing like everyone else, he’d better be prepared to learn otherwise.”

She leaned forward and fastened a warm embrace around him. A few more kisses, and she rest her head against his chest.

“You know I’d give the world just to stay like this. The match in limbo, not having to stress over politics like this.”

“I know. Me too.”

——

It’d been their routine that right before a match that she’d give him a kiss on the forehead, and he’d do it in return. It was his good luck charm. One last moment of tranquility before the mayhem of the event began.

Flashing lights, cameras fixating on him, every telecaster trying to get the best angle of him. He’d shake hands with the Arbiter upon arriving to the chess board, make a cool comment about being grateful to be able to see him again. The Arbiter gave a hidden smile in acknowledgment and wished him good luck. Next was Viigand, the manself was absolutely dull, more suitable to be a soldier, than an intellectual. Anatoly shook his hand, stiff and unwavering. He wished him best of luck, Viigand gave an expressionless nod in response. So far so good. The Arbiter gave his general speech regarding his position, the history of the game, the importance of this specific game, and a moment of silence for the ‘spirit of chess’. Anatoly sat down to begin and saw Molokov across the room talking to someone. Too focused on the game to focus in on trivial matters, he made his first move.

——

The session went generally good. He managed to lead three to one. It was Anatoly’s first session without any sort of complications. Just fair chess, the way it should be. The merchandisers getting a segment between break sessions was annoying and obnoxious, but nothing too drastic to throw him off his rhythm. The only slight distraction was upon further examining the telecasters and reporters, he’d gotten slight whiplash from making a direct eye contact with a certain Frederick Trumper. His head began spinning just a slight bit which unfortunately cost him his first loss to Viigand. He’d examine the board, look over, make eye contact with Trumper, overlook a crucial stalemate and lose his Bishop. The session ended and he made his way out of the event hall in a hurry. Florence had caught up with him along the way, and grab onto his hand. Both settled on briefly stopping in the room to get Anatoly better prepared for his Interview.

“Why is he here?”

He paced back and forth in the room. He wasn’t scared of Viigand. He wasn’t scared of Svetlana.He wasn’t scared of Molokov. But by God did the sight of Frederick Trumper spontaneously appearing in his life again frighten him. Not so much the man, but what he meant.

“He’s working for Global Television now, I thought you knew.”

She pulled him to sit on the bed with her. When he plopped down, she made fast work of fixing his hair as he’d been running his hands through it throughout the course of the day. She patted her hands against his cheeks.

“I didn’t.”

“You’re hopelessly oblivious, love. Don’t worry Anatoly. You’re not playing him, you only have to worry about the game.”

“Mmmhm”

——

De Courcey had personally come to escort Anatoly to the studio room. Shaking hands allowed Anatoly a moment to sigh of relief.

“Anatoly I’m so glad you came!”

“I’m so glad I could take this opportunity. Thank you so much Walter, Florence was getting worried about the tone press coverage.”

“No need to worry at all, not to spill all my secrets, but I’ve personally set up this interview to bring out the best of you.”

“I’m incredibly grateful.”

Walter presses a hand to Anatoly’s shoulder, a reassuring gesture. They both walked down the studio hallway. Other such broadcasts were being recorded in the space, Chess wasn’t the only event consuming attention in the world.

“In fact Anatoly, I think you’ll be grateful to know you’ll be accompanied by a friend of yours. They’re very anxious to see you again.”

Anatoly blinked in confusion. That was odd. He hadn’t requested anyone to join him. He trusted Walter though, this was the same man who’d worked with Florence to help him gain refugee status and immigrate to England.

“Ah? I see… many thanks.”

Walter gave him a big smile and a good pat on the back as he opened the door which led to the studio room which he was to be interviewed in. Upon walking in, Anatoly felt dread immediately rise within him. How stupid of him.

There sitting in the interview chair, clad in a bright white suit, and a black tie was none other than the man he’d been stressing over the better part of the evening, Frederick Trumper. Frederick Trumper spinning back and forth slightly on his spinny chair, a yogurt cup in hand, and spoon in mouth. He didn’t even have both feet in the door yet and this was already hell. He looked back at Walter, but Walter just gestured for him to go take a seat. He proceeded with caution, sucking it up and putting on his calm face.

Frederick looked down into his lap, then up to face the camera.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let us please give a standing ovation to the man of the hour, Anatoly Sehairgeffski.” Of course he’d say his last name wrong. Dear God. Anatoly took a seat. Trumper sounded absolutely bored, spiteful but bored. A very deliberate rough cough from behind the crew area, and Frederick sniffled his nose and perked up. “How good to see you again.”

“Very unexpected.”

He’d directed his gaze to Walter, before finally looking Trumper in the eyes yet again. He looked tired. Maybe Anatoly was just projecting himself onto Frederick.

“It’s been a while, hasn't it?”

“A year I believe.”

“That’s crazy, it hasn’t felt like a year.”

“Yes.”

Frederick took one last spoonful of yogurt, maintaining that uncomfortable eye contact. He held it up and gestured to it.

“I just thought I’d make a little nod to our game.” He faced the camera as if to make an aside, “a little inside joke of ours.”

Down at his lap again, he shuffled something on his lap, Anatoly didn’t glance down but assumed cards of some sort, cheeky.

“Ah.. ha ha.”

Their eyes locked again.

“How’s homeless life holding up?”

“Excuse me?”

Anatoly shifted in his chair, bracing himself.

“Your lack of a home.”

“I have a home. It’s in England.”

“That’s no home. Y’know, home is where your family is.”

“England is my home.”

Anatoly’s voice went an octave lower, more stern. This was infuriating. Frederick rolled his eyes, and shifted position, and very quickly looked down in his lap, then back at Anatoly.

“Any new bold cryptic political statements you want to share?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying, you know the climate surrounding this game. Hit me with your politics.”

“This is just a game.”

Frederick waved his hand in dismissal, along with an overly exaggerated “pmfft”

“You’ve got to have some goal in mind. I recall hearing you say something vaguely anti-Russian. Been there done that.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to get out of me, but I insist this is just a game. I’m in this just for the chess. I’ve always been in it just for the chess.“

Frederick faced the camera again, switching the weight on his legs. Anatoly tuned out his ceaseless nonsense for a second and looked around the room. Walter was standing in the back talking to the camera crew. Anatoly was going to kill him. That’s if he didn’t die before the end of the interview. All that was important was that Anatoly remain calm and collected. This wasn’t for his sake as much as it was Florence. Florence better be damn happy after the current nonsense he’d been putting up with. It’s fine. He could handle it. He handled Trumper and his barrage the first time. He could withstand again.

Frederick nudged him on the shoulder, he must’ve noticed Anatoly wasn’t paying attention.

“I heard you and your second have gotten close.”

“Florence loves getting involved with the game. We share a mutual love for the game.”

He looked down into his lap, grimaced and scrunched his nose a bit, then shot his head right back up at Anatoly.

“I’ve heard you two are very close.”

“...”

Anatoly straightened his back, and readjusted the collar of his shirt. Frederick inhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’d know a little something or other about being close with that specific second.”

“Ok.”

“Of course it’s a little different, considering you’re married. How is that? How’s married life?”

“I prefer to keep my personal life away from my chess life.”

Anatoly was beginning to crack, lose composure. He could see in Trumper’s eyes that he wasn’t the only though.

“Clearly. Running away with your second and abandoning your wife and all. Don’t you miss her?”

“Stop.”

“Woah there. Don’t raise your voice at me.”

“Can we move on.”

“No. In fact, boy do I have something to show you.”

He got up and spun Anatoly’s chair around the face the screen behind them, which lit up. Anatoly’s face grew with disgust and horror.

“...”

Projected onto the screen was a large image , of his wife. His wife and his children in what was presumably their home back in Russia. She held their younger child in her arms, the other stood next to her. Reflected in their faces was undeniably Anatoly. They looked older than he remembered them. It seemed a blur, he couldn’t remember entirely the specifics of his life back in Russia. Svetlana’s tired eyes on the screen pierced right through him. Humiliation grew within him. All the while Trumper’s face close to his, stared him down, awaiting the intended reaction.

“Do you still remember her face? It’s your wife! She misses you Anatoly. She’d love to talk. Maybe you should be a better husband.”

Anatoly pushed Frederick away and stood up. He shot a glare at Walter, as he directed the camera towards him. He scoffed and stormed out. The last thing he heard was Frederick calling after him, to which Anatoly slammed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d literally rather die than even TRY and write about Viigand again. I’m really god awful at chess (I JUST started playing) so I’m not even going to attempt technical chess talk. It’s better for everyone.


End file.
